to win. He had lost. He had come in a sickening sixth. The disgrace
devastated him.

Maisie Shepherd, interested in her child champion, sought him out
and easily found him under the beech tree. "Why, what is the
matter?"

As he did not answer, she knelt by his side and put her hand on his
lean shoulder. "Tell me what has happened."

Again the celestial fragrance overspread his senses. He checked his
sobs and wiped his eyes with the back of his grubby hand. "Aw didn't
win," he moaned.

"Poor little chap," she said comfortingly. "Did you want to win so
very much?"

He got up and stared at her. "Yo' told me to win."

"So you ran for me?"

"Ay!"

She rose to her feet and looked down upon him, somewhat overwhelmed
by her responsibility. So in ancient days might a fair maiden have
regarded her knight who underwent entirely unnecessary batterings
for her sake. "Then for me you've won," she said. "I wish I could
give you a prize."

But what in the nature of a prize for a gutter imp of eleven does a